


Shell Shock

by bluebeholder



Series: Shell Shock [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Historically Accurate Uniform Sex, M/M, World War I, fluff gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: In October of 1917, Percival Graves meets Theseus Scamander in a muddy trench on the Western Front where they're fighting side-by-side under a hail of explosive shells and clouds of poison gas.In January of 1927, Theseus walks back into Percival's empty life in New York City, intent on saving Percival from a much quieter enemy: himself.





	Shell Shock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crimson_Voltaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/gifts).



> Crimson_Voltaire, this one’s for you, in thanks for your AMAZING summary of “a better mirror”. I may have had a…slight…failure when you said “fluff”. I hope an explosion of hurt/comfort, frighteningly well-researched trench warfare, and men affirming life under threat of imminent demise can suffice. <3

The arrival of Theseus Scamander in America is heralded only by the ticking of the hand of the Magical Threat Exposure Clock up from its regular blue into the yellow zone. Those wizards who know that he’s arrived thank their lucky stars that it isn’t his little brother—when Newt comes around, the hand attempts to pass red and into the infrared part of the spectrum. Otherwise, no one takes much notice. 

Percival Graves is locked in his office again, ignoring everyone. He does not have time for the thousand-and-one minor incidents that happen in the day to day world of MACUSA. He’s rather more concerned with dealing with Grindelwald. Since escaping custody, no one knows where he’s gone. They know, from spies and subterfuge, that he isn’t at Nurmengard or his other usual haunts, but that just puts Percival’s hair on end. He’s too old for this, and—if his Aurors were to be asked—too broken, but he’s not stopping now. Those two weeks spent with Grindelwald have convinced him as nothing else ever did that someone has to do something about this self-proclaimed king of wizardkind. That someone is going to be him, if it kills him.

He’s three-quarters of the way through a dry report detailing some nonsense in the Arctic that’s got a tenuous connection to Grindelwald when someone starts banging on his door. Oh, Goody Osburn protect him, which Junior Auror is having a crisis this time? Unfortunately, if they’re banging on his door, it means that Tina wasn’t able to fix whatever’s happening. Come to think of it, Tina might be the one outside. She knows he’s given orders not to be disturbed, but—as the one who actually found him—she gets a certain amount of leeway in selective deafness when it comes to the things he tells her to do. Percival doesn’t even look up, just points his wand at the door and mutters, “Alohomora.”

The door bursts open, hitting the wall with a resounding slam, and someone strides in with firm footsteps. Whoever it is stops right in front of the desk. “Percival Graves, since when did you have Junior Aurors so scared of you that they cry when they get near your office?” 

Percival looks up from the report, absolutely thrown. “Theseus?”

There he is: more than six feet of impeccably-dressed British Auror, arms folded, scowling down at Percival like a thundercloud from on high. The effect is not helped by his dark, curly hair or stormy gray eyes, and suddenly Percival is hit by a wave of nostalgia. This is a strange echo of the first time they met, when Theseus was staring down at Percival at Passchendaele on the 13th of October, 1917, and Percival has to shake himself to get rid of the memory. 

He stands up, intending to offer a hand, but Theseus is already around the desk, yanking Percival into a hug. “You,” Theseus says after a moment, shoving Percival back and looking up him and down critically, “need to take better care of yourself.”

“Forgive me for preferring to focus on my job.”

“Percy. You can’t do your job if you starve to death.”

This is it: the single most surreal thing to happen to Percival since…since coming back to the land of the living after Grindelwald. It’s January of 1927 and he last saw Theseus Scamander in December of 1924. The circumstances of their parting had been…well. They aren’t circumstances Percival likes to think about much. Theseus is the last person that Percival would have expected to show up here! What is this?

“Why are you here?” Percival asks, derailing the conversation with all the deftness of a badly-cast Stunning Spell.

“Because I’m worried, you daft idiot,” Theseus says, giving Percival a small shake.

Percival detaches himself from Theseus and takes a step back. He does not trip over his chair in a flustered way, because Percival Graves is never flustered, nor does he trip over furniture when upset. “And you came to the conclusion that you should be worried…how?”

Theseus goes back to standing there with his arms folded. “Newt and I talk, you know.”

Oh.

Well.

That’s the nail in the coffin. Newt is never getting those magical creature transport permits he’s been bothering Percival about for the last two weeks. And Tina is about to get demoted to Wand Permits again for telling Newt confidential information about the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“What has he been telling you?” Percival says, with as much icy dignity as he can muster. He’s aware that there are a few people outside, looking in at them. He ignores them. 

“You aren’t eating, you aren’t sleeping, you yelled at the President last week,” Theseus says, ticking items off on his fingers. “You only handle things directly related to Grindelwald, you’re letting Tina Goldstein delegate everything else you should be doing, and no one seems to know the last time that you actually left this building and went home. Should I go on?”

“You’ve said more than enough,” Percival says flatly. He points at the door. “And I’ll thank you to stop talking right now and get the fuck out of my office.”

Theseus doesn’t move. This is the man who stared down a rampaging Ukranian Ironbelly without an ounce of fear: of course he’s not scared of Percival. “I’ll thank you to come take a bloody walk and talk to me,” he says. “And if you can convince me that I shouldn’t be worried, then I’ll go back to England and you can go back to pretending I don’t exist.”

Percival winces. That’s a low blow, and Theseus knows it. “Very well,” he says, Summoning his coat and scarf. “Lead the way.”

***

It was October of 1917. The first few men of the (admittedly very small) American Magical Expeditionary Force had arrived on the Western Front, mostly experienced Aurors who’d volunteered to go in the vanguard. The rest of the force would be joining them shortly, but Percival Graves—thirty years old and still looking for a real cause to believe in—was already on the front lines. 

He’d been asked to be a courier to Passchendaele village, where British forces were massing to take the last ridge east of Ypres. Most of the way was by low-flying broomstick, because he’d never been there and Apparition was difficult, they didn’t have access to Floo, and there were no available Portkeys. The message—which he would not remember well later—had to do with the detachment of Ukranian Ironbellies and their handlers who were at Passchendaele. The Ministry wanted them to return to the Eastern Front for fighting against suddenly-mobilized dragons on the German side.

Percival made the Auror encampment in good time, and noticed as he landed that there was a great deal of activity, battle preparations for the dragons and more. He made straight for the command center and was summarily evicted, because they needed the dragons for this offensive. 

“The Muggles don’t have their artillery in place!” one Auror told Percival in passing. “They’ll all be killed if we don’t act!”

And it was at that point that Percival decided that he was not going to stand by and watch people die. He couldn’t work with dragons—that was up to the actual dragon-tamers. Like that young, skinny, wiry fellow with the mop of rusty hair, who was given a surprising amount of deference for someone who probably barely made the age cut for enlistment. But Percival could definitely cast Shield Charms and reinforce existing defenses, and so he did that, slipping seamlessly into the work of the British Aurors despite his American accent. 

They were supporting men from New Zealand, the Anzac Corps. The No-Majs were grim and cold and wet, having already been dug in here for days in the unending rainstorm, and Percival only wished he could do more for them than shore up their trenches with subtle magic. An offensive was planned, but the ground was nothing but mud, rain pouring down all day. There were many who were muttering about the inevitable loss, barely audible over the incessant hammering of shell fire.

Fighting began early in the morning when, at five o’clock, the Germans opened up an artillery barrage that destroyed guns, ammunition, and men. Percival wasn’t there, but he sure as hell heard the sound. He was with the dragon crews, casting last-second enchantments over them and preparing them for takeoff. People were talking about the Australian advance, saying that the New Zealanders couldn’t get moving to join the Australians because of machine gun fire and uncut barbed wire beyond the lines. The dragon crews ignored all of it in favor of getting their own forces off the ground.

“Hey—you aren’t one of us,” a young British Auror said, visibly confused, as Percival helped him strap into the saddle. The kid looked damn young, too young to be on the back of a dragon about to fly out into heavy fire.

“I’m one of you because I’m here,” Percival muttered, yanking a strap into place. He checked the harness one final time—it was secure, looking exactly the way they’d told him it should, and he slapped the kid on the leg and stepped back. “Clear!”

It was just a moment later that the dragon crews were taking off, raging into the air to rain hell down on the German forces. The remaining men on the ground turned their attention to the combat happening on the Wallemolen spur. The Anzacs were getting nowhere fast and there weren’t enough wizards to make a difference, but they could sure as hell try.

That was the day Percival found out that a Shield Charm couldn’t block a machine gun.

By eight o’clock, they were dug in, unable to advance and unwilling to retreat. They took shell fire for hours, the steady pounding enough to drive a man mad. And perhaps it did drive some of the commanders mad, because at three in the afternoon an attack was ordered. It was canceled just as swiftly as hundreds of men died in machine gun fire. Percival took a glancing hit in the upper arm, easily enough to heal, but still incredibly painful. And he couldn’t save any of the other men. There was blood all over him, and mud, and it was still fucking raining. 

Artillery bombardment starting going wrong round about that time, with friendly fire actually hitting some of the Anzac positions. By that time, the Germans were making decisive advances, and there was no choice but for the allied forces to fall back, all the way to the slopes of the Wallemolen spur, which they’d only just passed a few hours ago. 

The morning of October 13 broke cold, gray, and hellish. The British had called for an end to the advance, because none of their high-explosive shells were working in the mud, and no one could get heavy artillery moving. There were thousands of men dead, and by the morning the cries of men stranded and dying in no-man’s-land were audible. It wasn’t an option, to Apparate out there and save them. Anyone who tried would get shot before they could get back. The British Aurors informed Percival of this grimly: they knew from experience. They’d tried.

The dragons came back fewer in number than they left. They’d gone out with eight: six came back. The commander of the local British force was amicable at this point to Percival delivering his message: the Ukranian Ironbellies would depart back to the Eastern Front. 

“It’s Fafnir’s Golden Dragons, if that makes any difference,” Percival told the commander. “No one knows how the Germans got them to work together—”

“Gold, probably,” the skinny redhead, the lead of the dragon project, put in quietly. “That’s why they have the name—they’re the gold-hoarders. You can bribe them.”

Percival nodded at him. “Right. Well, hopefully you can beat them off with yours.”

A brief exchange of letters between the British commanders and Percival’s superior resulted in Percival staying with the Brits. They were expecting to remain dug in here for quite some time. Apparently the extra hands would be welcomed. 

Percival left the post wondering vaguely if he’d made the right decision, in volunteering for this American experiment. He was just lost enough in thought that he didn’t notice the other man coming in toward the command post. They slammed into each other hard enough that Percival was knocked over. By some miracle, the other man remained standing.

“I say, are you all right?” he asked, looking down at Percival. “Sorry about that—I wasn’t paying attention at all.” He offered a hand and Percival took it, letting the man help him to his feet.

“I wasn’t paying attention either,” Percival said, looking the man over. He was several inches taller than Percival. Dark hair, muddy and plastered to his head; dark gray eyes that looked remarkably clear. Younger than Percival, but with the weathered look that everyone out here seemed to have. “Pleasure to meet you. Percival Graves.”

The other man shook his hand. “Theseus Scamander,” he said. “Want to go and find someone who’s got coffee? I hear that supplies actually got through this week.”

***

They end up in Central Park. Percival very pointedly does not look at or talk to Theseus until the other man, visibly irritated, says, “Percy. Please. I dragged myself all the way to America just to see if you’re all right. The least you can do is talk to me.”

“Don’t call me Percy.”

“Fine. Percival. Just say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” Percival demands. “That I’m swooning like some overwrought heroine in a novel? That I need to be rescued? That already happened, and I’m fine.”

Theseus looks at him for a moment. “You don’t look it.”

Percival knows he doesn’t look fine—he looks permanently exhausted, overworked, and underfed. But one does not become Director of Magical Security without being the single most stubborn bastard in all of America. “I look fine.”

“People are noticing. I haven’t seen you in two years and I’m noticing, for Faust’s sake. You—”

“Theseus.” Something in Percival’s tone must actually sound wrong, because Theseus shuts up immediately. Maybe he is sounding a little desperate, after all. 

They’re standing off the path a bit, out of immediate earshot of passerby. Not that there are many: it’s late January in New York, and colder than is really reasonable. There’s no snow, though; the sky is bright and clear and blue, entirely too cheerful against the bare branches of the surrounding trees and unforgiving lines of the cityscape. Percival prefers dreary days, lately. It feels like the world is trying to be sympathetic to his mood.

“What do you need?” Theseus asks, after a long moment. “I…you know I only came here to help.”

“I know,” Percival says wearily. “And I don’t want help.”

Theseus, hands in his pockets, gazes at Percival like he’s some kind of puzzle. “Let me, for old friendship’s sake if nothing else,” he says quietly. 

Percival holds onto his pride for a moment. If he says no, Theseus will walk away. He’s not a man to waste his effort where it’s not wanted. But—as he always has—Theseus has found the one chink in Percival’s armor and driven himself right through it. “All right,” Percival says, looking away from Theseus. 

“Good,” Theseus says. “Since you’ve already left the office, and it’s getting late—dinner?”

“If you like.”

“I do,” Theseus says firmly. With a familiarity that’s slightly alarming, he links his elbow through Percival’s and steers him away, into the heart of New York.

And that’s how Percival finds himself having a cordial dinner with his old flame at a No-Maj restaurant in the middle of January. He’s fairly sure he’s dreaming, but at this point it’s a pleasant dream, so he doesn’t question it too much. Giles Corey knows he hasn’t had much good in his life lately. He’s not about to let this go now. 

The restaurant is some No-Maj place called Keens, and Percival has never in his life been here. He’s always been a stickler for Rappaport’s Law, but there are some benefits to having friends from countries where the laws are a little more lax. Theseus has apparently been here many times before. He doesn’t even let Percival order—just calls for a mutton chop for each of them. 

“You need to get out more,” Theseus says after a moment of silence. They’re in a quiet corner of the room, away from people who might take umbrage at wizards being in this establishment. This place is popular, full of notaries and nobodies alike. All No-Majs, of course; the fact that Percival was here will be strictly off the record. The sweet smell and smoke of pipe tobacco is heavy in the air.

“I probably do,” Percival admits. He leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “Just haven’t had the heart to, lately.”

“I don’t blame you,” Theseus says. He’s leaning forward, elbows on the table, observing Percival closely. “Forgive me—but you look like a man who’s got shell shock.”

That startles a bitter laugh out of Percival. “Funny how a war couldn’t get me there, but two weeks with Grindelwald did.”

Theseus’ lips twist in a parody of a smile. “I know what that bastard is capable of. I’m not surprised you’re absolutely knackered.”

Percival shakes his head. “Is it that visible?”

“No,” Theseus says. Not gentle, because he’s not a man given to gentleness except in very certain circumstances, but it’s as close as he ever really gets. “I only see it because I know you.”

“I almost wish you hadn’t come, insight like that. You know me too well.”

“I think I’m entitled to know you a little better than most.”

There are seven years unspoken there. Muddy nights in trenches on the Western Front, sunny days in an English country house in Shropshire, slow winter mornings in a New York brownstone, a week in the deep rainforest of Amazonia. Memories Percival is unlikely to ever forget. He can see the same thing in Theseus’ face, too, a shared recollection of things they couldn’t forget if they tried. 

It occurs to Percival suddenly that those seven years account for a fifth of Theseus’ life. They met when he was barely twenty-five, and Percival broke it off just three years ago. It’s a significant part of Percival’s life, but an even more significant part of Theseus’. That’s why he’s here. He’s done as bad a job of forgetting everything as Percival has. 

“You’re right,” Percival says. “You are entitled to that.”

Theseus shakes his head in apparent wonderment. “I didn’t even think you’d give me that much.”

Percival thinks—I’d give you anything—then cuts that off before it can leave his mouth. “It’s only fair, after you came all this way to America just to look in on me.”

“I didn’t just—” Theseus stops as the waiter arrives with their meal. There are a few minutes of silence. It’s unusual for Percival to eat things whose preparation was not assisted by magic, and his few memories of those other incidents are not particularly fond. But this—this is good. Theseus has taste.

It takes a small effort to summon up the courage. This is not a conversation Percival particularly wants to have. Finally, though, Percival asks, “What didn’t you just, Theseus?”

Theseus doesn’t flinch, but he sets his fork down deliberately, staring at his plate for several uncomfortable seconds. He looks up and meets Percival’s eyes directly. “I didn’t just come to New York to make sure you were alive. I got plenty of that from my little brother’s letters. I came because I wanted to see you. In person.”

“And this was an excuse?”

“Yes and no,” Theseus says. “It’s complicated. But then, things with you and I are always complicated, aren’t they?”

Percival thinks about that. How much he wishes Theseus was just gone, leaving Percival to his paperwork and investigation and search for Grindelwald. How glad he is that Theseus is here with him, a familiar presence absolutely untainted by recent events. How frustrated he is with himself for feeling like he needs to reach out. How much he absolutely wants to reach out.

“They are,” Percival says.

***

Things between them weren’t always so messy. 

The trenches were still full of mud and water, and it felt like every other man was sick. Warming and Drying Charms only went so far, after all, especially when they could only be used in secret. All was miserable on the Western Front. 

Percival was holed up with Theseus on the reserve trench. It was so wet here that the trenches weren’t really trenches, but bulwarks of sandbags, supports, and earthworks. They had a tiny spot carved out for themselves under some sandbags and supports, veiled by a few Notice-Me-Not Charms, Muffling Charms, and other magical subterfuge. It was just big enough to sit side by side out of the rain and out of sight of the No-Majs. 

“—and that’s how the sergeant discovered that being an insulting prick results in frogs magically appearing in your pants,” Theseus finished.

“How have you not been arrested yet?” Percival asked when he finally stopped laughing. 

Theseus shrugged, mischief written all over his face. “It helps when you’re one of the best Aurors on the Western Front.” He leaned sideways against Percival, heavy and warm. “Although that doesn’t seem to be helping us get rations.”

“At least we have some,” Percival said. “Even if they’re absolutely fucking inedible.”

“When I get out of here,” Theseus pronounced, looking with disdain at an open, empty can sitting by his foot, “I will never touch bully beef again.”

Percival stretched out one leg and kicked the can away. It went clattering out of their hiding spot and into the rain. “If you weren’t so bad at Transfiguration—”

“Don’t you blame me!”

“—then we might be able to have hot roast beef instead of whatever the hell they’re putting into those cans,” Percival finished. 

Theseus’ head landed on Percival’s shoulder with a thud. “Percy, stop talking about food. Just…let’s be quiet, while we can. They’ll have us back on the front lines tomorrow.”

Percival contrived to get his arm around the younger man, something that could easily be thought of as simple affection and absolutely wasn’t. If they had time, Percival might have tried for something else. Theseus was attractive, smart, strong, and a damn good wizard. He was forthright and brave, and Percival admired him, though he was five years Percival’s junior. There was no time for want in this war, though. No time for anything but stolen moments amid the incessant pounding of shellfire. 

He was, therefore, not expecting it when Theseus shifted and, struggling to get the angle right in their cramped quarters, kissed Percival full on the mouth. There was a moment of frantic motion as Percival tried not to knock any essential body parts on the wooden supports and Theseus practically crawled into Percival’s lap. And then it sorted itself out: Theseus, between Percival’s legs and bracing himself on Percival’s chest, hanging onto the front of his coat with fiery determination, Percival clutching Theseus’ shoulders, refusing to let go of the other man. 

“Are you sure about this,” Percival breathed against Theseus’ mouth.

“I could be dead tomorrow,” Theseus said heatedly. “You could be dead tomorrow.”

Percival nipped at Theseus’ bottom lip and Theseus gasped. He ground against Percival, and though the wool of their uniforms was permanently damp and scratchy the friction was good. Percival’s fingers bit into Theseus’ shoulders. He hooked one of his legs over one of the other man’s, effectively pinning him in place, giving them both leverage to keep grinding against each other. The wool of the uniforms scratched and itched, but hell if it wasn’t doing a good job of providing the friction Percival craved right now.

“We aren’t going to be able to get out of our uniforms,” Percival said, panting, when Theseus drew back a bit to breathe.

“Who gives a fuck, we’re wizards, we can clean ourselves up,” Theseus said, and let go of Percival’s coat, yanking it open without regard to the buttons. Percival had another two layers under that, and Theseus attacked them single-mindedly, tearing open the blouse coat and the thinner shirt beneath. And then he bent his head and went for Percival’s throat, biting and sucking and lighting fires all over his skin. Percival’s head dropped back and hit the sandbag behind him, all his awareness centering on the obscene things Theseus was doing to his neck.

Getting clothes off—that wasn’t going to happen, when they were crushed together in this tiny space with no room to move elbows and knees. But fuck if that was going to stop Percival. He worked a hand between himself and Theseus and fumbled at the buttons of Theseus’ trousers. Theseus figured out what he was doing and rose up a little, giving Percival slightly better access, but he couldn’t hold himself up for long and didn’t seem to want to leave Percival’s neck alone. He crashed down again, landing heavily on Percival, and the sudden pressure was enough to make Percival’s hips buck uselessly. He wanted more and couldn’t get it because he was trapped under more than six feet of solid muscle and all he could do was struggle and fail to move against Theseus.

“Fucking—why do they give us the worst fucking uniforms,” Theseus growled, pulling at Percival’s heavy winter coat, trying to expose more skin. “I can’t get this off you.” Theseus gave up on trying to through all the layers and attacked the curve of Percival’s jaw, wrenching a moan out of Percival as lips and teeth and tongue met sensitive skin. 

“We’re not supposed to take them off,” Percival said roughly, pulling himself together and tugging on Theseus’ hair. He got the other man to lean back enough that he could actually get his free hand under the unbuttoned waistband of Theseus’ trousers. He knew he hit the right spot, even through another fucking layer of fabric, when Theseus groaned and his hand, clutching Percival’s arm, tightened so hard that there would definitely be a bruise there tomorrow. 

Now that he had an angle Percival was as ruthless as Theseus had been with his neck. He palmed the erection he could feel straining at the other man’s underwear. No way in hell to actually touch it, but Percival knew how to do this. His wrist ached, pinned between their bodies, but it didn’t stop him from touching, curling his fingers as best he could, stroking Theseus with a delicacy that absolutely didn’t fit in this muddy hole in a wall of sandbags. Theseus shuddered, a little freer to move than Percival since he was on top, swearing into the side of Percival’s neck, holding Percival’s arms in a bruising grip. 

And then—Theseus moved in just the right way, hitting Percival at exactly the right angle. That was what he wanted—hell, what he needed. With his free hand Percival grabbed hold of the back of Theseus’ leg, holding him in place. Even though he was distracted, Theseus obviously got it, because he shifted and set his own damn pace. It was driving Percival mad and his own attention to Theseus was wavering so any rhythm he had disappeared and that must have been just enough. Theseus completely collapsed onto Percival and through the flannel between him and Percival’s fingers Percival could feel sticky, spreading warmth.

“Ah, fuck,” Theseus muttered after a shivering second, “you didn’t—”

“Keep moving, you fucking idiot,” Percival said. His voice sounded as wrecked as he felt. 

And Theseus did, leaning back down to get back to work on Percival’s throat. It gave Percival the chance to move, even half-pinned under Theseus, feeling like he was scraping himself raw against the layers of wool between them, unwilling to stop because it was the best thing he’d felt in what felt like years, and when Theseus moved in just the right way—

It was fucking blinding and for a moment Percival forgot where he was. There was no constant sound of shellfire, no mud, no cold. The only thing that mattered was the weight of Theseus on top of him, the shock of pleasure lighting his nerves on fire, the sense of not being alone.

***

They sit in the light of the fire, in Percival’s study in his house. He’s not entirely sure how they ended up here, what possessed him to invite Theseus back into his life like this. After dinner, Theseus had seemed perfectly willing to bow out and go his own way, but Percival just couldn’t let it go. In a roundabout way, he’d asked Theseus back to his house. After-dinner coffee—something the No-Maj restaurant didn’t offer. Percival did.

“I noticed the threat clock was at yellow when I got to the Woolworth Building,” Theseus says. “Any particular reason for that?”

“You, probably,” Percival says. 

Theseus’ brows shoot up. “What?”

“You came to America, which is a threat to the magical community,” Percival clarifies, privately reveling in the amusement of watching Theseus’ confusion. 

“All right—explain that,” Theseus says. “I’m a bloody war hero!”

Percival can’t hold back a smirk. “Your heroics ended up causing the largest group of Memory Charms cast on No-Majs since the Ilfracombe Incident.”

Theseus takes a violently disgruntled sip of coffee. “I saved you.”

“And violated the Statute of Secrecy in more ways than I care to count.”

“MACUSA wasn’t even there!”

“I was. And you’d better believe that war hero or not I reported back to them that Theseus Scamander is the kind of person who thinks it’s ever a good idea to enchant No-Maj machine guns to turn back on their operators.”

Theseus gives Percival a flat look. “See if I ever tell you secrets again.”

Percival takes a long, satisfied drink of his own coffee before pointing out, “It isn’t a secret when I watched you do it.” At that, Theseus rolls his eyes, but stops arguing. For a moment, the silence is companionable, even nice. It’s uncomplicated. They’re just friends, just talking, just bantering, just reminiscing. It’s ordinary. 

“This is better than most coffee I’ve had recently,” Theseus says reflectively, swirling the coffee in his cup. “You do a damn good job.”

“I’ve perfected the art,” Percival says, unable to keep a certain dryness from his voice. “It helps, when this is half my diet.”

“Merlin, Percival.” Theseus sets his cup down and drags a hand down his face. “Tell me that dinner wasn’t the first proper meal you’ve had in the last month.”

His silence, Percival thinks, is eloquent enough. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Theseus says.

“And what the hell would you do, Theseus?” Percival snaps, roused to anger again. “What would you do if Grindelwald took you and kept you and blasted into your skull with the Imperius Curse? If it turned out you never fucking trained enough to be able to resist the Cruciatus Curse and you gave up the names of every single person you cared about? If you told him everything just because you couldn’t take the fucking pain anymore?”

The fire crackles into the heavy silence. 

“What do you want me to say?” Theseus asks at last.

Percival looks away. “I don’t want you to say anything.”

“If that madman—”

“He’s not mad,” Percival says. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knew how to keep me contained, how to play the whole of MACUSA like a puppet on his strings. He did what he had to do to get information out of me and then what he had to do to make an example out of me. If I’d cooperated from the beginning, he wouldn’t have—”

“He would still have torn MACUSA apart,” Theseus says. “And then he’d have come for the rest of us. And you’d be even guiltier.”

“I’m not guilty.”

Theseus shook his head. “Percival. You asked what I’d do if I were in your shoes. I’d be eating myself alive with guilt. And then I’d shut up and listen to you when you told me that I’d done nothing wrong, because I trust you.”

It’s like having a knife driven into him. Percival feels choked. “You trust me? After—?”

“You saved me in a fucking trench! I’d put my life in your hands!” Theseus glares at Percival. “I trust you, so give me some of that back. Let me help you.”

“What exactly can you do?” Percival asks. “You can’t go back and fix this!”

Theseus is across the room in a second, on his knees in front of Percival, holding his hands. “I can’t,” he says, “but I can be with you right now and make sure you don’t get lost again.”

Percival has been holding it together for a very long time. But Theseus’ hands are strong and solid and very present, and Percival cracks. He’s exhausted, he’s still in pain, and nobody has really reached out to him in so damn long. The tears come unbidden and they don’t stop. Theseus doesn’t sweep him into an embrace, because they aren’t that kind of men. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t leave Percival, doesn’t pretend this isn’t happening. For just a moment, the only that matters is the sense of not being alone.

**Author's Note:**

> For sticklers: yes, Theseus and Percival met on the Western Front, and yes, Newt was there temporarily. I did not do research fast enough, but I have attempted to rectify the situation.
> 
> The First Battle of Passchendaele is described as best I can manage. I’m not a WWI specialist (though, rate I’m going, I’ll be able to speak as fluently about it as I can about the ’20s) so please forgive minor historical inaccuracies. 
> 
> The trench scene—CHRIST, THERE ARE A LOT OF LAYERS IN A UNIFORM. I did a metric ton of digging for this, and [this site here](https://worldwar1letters.wordpress.com/sams-references-explained/the-doughboys-uniform-and-equipment/) provided my favorite resource: a breakdown (with PICTURES) of what we’re dealing with. You came for smut: instead, you got MILITARY FASHION HISTORY.


End file.
